


And Possibly, A Swimming Pool

by backintimeforstuff



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Early series 5, F/M, General fluff, Post-Episode: s05e02 The Beast Below, Pre-Episode s05e03 Victory of the Daleks, eleven and amy friendship, tour of the TARDIS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 05:07:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30083922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backintimeforstuff/pseuds/backintimeforstuff
Summary: After the events of The Beast Below, Amy does indeed find that there are plenty of clothes in the wardrobe, and as the Doctor promised, a swimming pool.
Relationships: Eleventh Doctor/Amy Pond
Kudos: 4





	And Possibly, A Swimming Pool

“Right, Churchill then!” 

The Doctor’s childish enthusiasm skyrockets through the roof as he spins around, throwing levers and tapping into keyboards on the console. “Amelia Pond, you’re going to love this.” 

Only when there’s no reply to his declaration does the Doctor stop still, brushing quiff out of his eyes to find an empty control room. Swivelling to the left and back around again, his confusion grows. Copper walls and glass floors. Nothing. No noise, no sign of her at all. A _disappearing_ companion, well, it’s certainly something new.

“…Amy?” His uncertain call meets a wall of silence, echoing off the central column. Straining his ears through the humming and groaning of the ship, he listens for any sign, for any indication that he hasn’t just imagined her. Met with silence, he’s about to check the mechanic’s seat, as if she might be swinging under the console. _“Amelia!”_ Finally, as if she’s purposefully waited for the last moment, his ears prick up at the sound of scrabbling. Along a distant corridor, it’s getting closer and closer, until – 

Appearing at the top of the stairs, Amy looks at him with a level of perplexity, as if he hasn’t just disappeared off the face of the Earth.

“Yeah, what’s up?” 

The Doctor gapes at her. “What are you doing?”

“…Finding the… library?” Her answer, as if it’s supposed to be obvious, confuses him even more. She’d been standing with him mere seconds ago, and now - 

“But… you were right here!” He gestures inexplicably to the empty space in front of the communications panel where she’d seemingly dematerialised from. “You were on the phone to Winston not, what, two minutes ago, and then-”

“Doctor that was a good half an hour ago.” Amy raises an eyebrow at his confusion, mouth still agape. Descending the staircase, she pulls her nightgown further around her shoulders, although it doesn’t seem to help with much. “…You were fiddling with, whatever, so I went to have a look around.” He’s still blank. “…I did tell you that’s where I was going.” 

After he still says nothing, she hits him playfully on the arm. “Guess you’re just not used to having someone around?”

“Well, I… I suppose it’s been a while.” 

“Come on then, mister, do the honours.” She extends a hand, but he just looks at her. “Show me around, would it kill you?” 

“Not to my knowledge.” The Doctor casts an eye to the staircases, thinking about all the places he could take her. There’s the squash course and the scullery, the secondary library and the maze. They could spend the entire evening just wondering around here, getting lost in the labyrinth of – 

The Doctor pulls himself together. “…What about our appointment?” 

“Oh, come on. Churchill can wait.” Amy pouts at him, and just this once, he lets her get away with it. 

\--- 

Piloting the TARDIS into a safe spot amongst the time vortex, The Doctor takes Amy by the hand, leading her up the west staircase and through the labyrinth of corridors. Wooden floors and copper walls, it’s a lot like the console room – with the occasional roundel, and doors going off in all directions. There are side tables with nick-knacks, winding slopes and spiral staircases echoing off into the distance. Stopping by the first cross roads, she’s pretty sure this ship is bigger than the universe it inhabits, going on forever in all kinds of strange and crazy ways. 

“You wanted the library?” The Doctor says, casually, as if he’s offering her directions in a small suburban town. Amy looks left, and then right, spotting locked doors, potted plants, and pulsing lightbulbs.

“Yes.”

“The one with all the books and the scrolls and the balconies, and a swimming pool thrown in for good measure?” He shoots her a gleaming look, and she might as well be seven years old again, all spellbound and rooted to the spot. 

_“Yes.”_

“Well then-” He’s got her in a vice-like grip, and if get ready to run has ever meant anything to her before, it certainly does now. “Let’s go and find it.” He’s dragging her head-first down the corridors, pulling her along with a stupid grin – past twists and turns and other things - “Welcome home, by the way!” Fringe splaying everywhere. If he wasn’t leading her on, Amy would have stopped dead at that. She’s been here, what? Five minutes? _Welcome home._ Ridiculous grin it is. It’s like flying through a tangled garden maze, falling down the rabbit hole and stepping through the looking glass all at once. God, how is she ever going to get used to this? If he ever turns around and asks, light eyes shining like the sun – those fourteen years of waiting were worth it. Absolutely. Completely.

Left, right, left again, up another flight of stairs, and finally, they’re standing by the library door. It’s old and wooden, and probably holds the secrets of the entire universe inside, if she was ever brave enough to look. She decides she is. To hell with the whole world. It’s now or never.

“Ready?”

_Absolutely. Completely._

\---

Walking through the wardrobe into Narnia, a coal fire crackles, sheading a glow onto the whole room. It’s exactly as he said it would be. The library, towering teetering up into the heavens, has floors and floors of books and scrolls, wooden balconies and hanging chandeliers, shelf steps, ladders and winged arm chairs. It’s like something out of an old enormous manor house, all quaintly crooked and going on forever. Flagstone floors, floorboards, scattered rugs – God, she could get _lost_ in here. She’s already itching to.

The Doctor lets her go – dropping her hand and letting her wander further in, immersed as she is in the smell of yellowing paper and leather bindings. There’s a spiralling staircase up by the side of the wall, leading up to the first floor and beyond.

“Ladies first.” The Doctor says, leaning up against the doorframe as if he’s seen it all before. Amy doesn’t need telling twice. Up the iron steps, two at a time - running her hand along the rail like she might emerge upon sea of cloud, or quite possibly, a swimming pool. But she’s met with neither. 

Instead, more heavy bookcases back onto walls, leaving room for reading tables and lamplight, and a view out onto the room below. Straight over to the balcony, Amy can’t stop herself from looking down and around at everything, fingertips feeling polished wood and brass plating. In the far corner, a question comes to her. 

“How’s all this _organised?_ ” 

“Entirely arbitrarily.” The Doctor says, strolling out from behind her. She hopes he’s joking. There must be thousands of books in here, with enough knowledge to fill the universe twice over. He runs a hand down the nearest dusty volume. “Alphabetically, actually. By title, and planet of origin.” _Planet of origin._ God, one of these days her head might stop spinning. “Up to other floors?” It seems he’s keen to move on. “If it’s views you’re looking for.” 

“Well actually I was-” She doesn’t want to tell him she’s still looking for the swimming pool. “Have you got any _surprises_ locked away in here?”

“Surprises?” The Doctor chuckles. A bigger on the inside time machine with a _library_ in it would be a surprise enough for most people, but then again Amy Pond isn’t most people. He lets a smile curl at his lips, offering her the palm of his hand. And as if they’re back out in the corridors again, he’s leading her to the staircase like they’re in some kind of fairy-tale; travelling, winding, flying, up and up and up, not even stopping to look – third, fourth – 

And there it is. Out on the fifth floor of the library, the swimming pool glistens. Crystal clear and almost glowing turquoise, the water lies still, deep and inviting. Amy’s mouth drops open. 

“I don’t believe it.” 

“You really should, y’know.” 

Amy’s stepping forward almost in a trance, toeing the edge of ceramic tiles. Definitely real. Definitely solid. Definitely a swimming pool. “You really weren’t kidding.”

“What, for fourteen years?” The Doctor laughs. “Afraid not.” He joins her at water side, considering the depth of it. “Fancy a swim?”

Amy can’t hold back a giggle. “God, you imagine?” But the Doctor just looks at her. His expression alone tells her she no longer has to. Standing as they are, the pages of fairy-tales are as real as the minds that make them, as sharp and as clear as the water in the swimming pool. She takes the Doctor by the crook of the elbow. “Maybe later, mister.”

\---

Wordlessly, he leads her across the floor to a side door, pulling it open with a chivalrous smile. Outside, another set of corridors beckon, turning this way and that, even more homely than the first. _Where to next,_ Amy wonders. She doesn’t have to wait long. The very next door they come across, silver this time, with a bronze handle, reveals a gleaming kitchen. Wooden table tops, potted plants and whitewashed cupboards, it wouldn’t be out of place in a small terraced house, entirely juxtaposed to the manor house library through the wall. 

“Eating, drinking, other, ugh, human stuff.” The Doctor declares, opening and closing the fridge just to prove it’s not empty.

“ _Human_ stuff?” Amy picks him up on his choice of wording. She sits on the edge of the table, staring round at it all, thinking back to fish custard all those years ago. “ _You_ eat, and you’re far from that.” 

“I suppose I am.” The Doctor smiles. 

“So?”

“ _So,_ maybe I was just being facetious.” He’s over by the sink, twisting the lemonade tap. “Maybe I also need to eat cereal, and eggs on toast, and all the rest of it. Maybe I also indulge in a little alcohol, which is _not,_ coincidentally, kept in the far cupboard on the right.”

“ _Do_ you?!” Amy’s finding that image particularly hard to picture.

“I _would_ ,” He says somewhat grimly, “but it all tastes horrible.” A moment passes. “Still. Enough of my pallet.” He downs the glass. “How about your room?”

“My _room?_ ” Amy’s momentarily struck. “I have a room here?”

“Course you do!” The Doctor wafts his hands about. “All brand new and painted. I told the TARDIS about you, and she created it specially.” He smiles. “Since you’ll be sticking around a while.”

For the second time that day, Amy finds herself in the Doctor’s embrace, having thrown herself at him after his last remark. “God, shut up. Please, just shut up. For five seconds. So I can tell you how amazing you are?” 

The Doctor laughs, arms around her shoulders. “It’s quite a compliment.”

Amy shrugs, spinning them around to get a better look at the room. “Doesn’t stop it being true.”

“Ooh, you’re flattering me now.”

“Well, _someone’s_ got to.”

“Oh, Come on Pond!” The Doctor exclaims, pulling away from her with a raised eyebrow and gesturing hands. “Bigger on the inside time machine! _Next stop everywhere!_ I appreciate the sentiment, but I think we can leave it at the door just a little bit longer.”

“Oh really?” Amy’s eyes glisten, a wicked grin appearing. “What would you replace it with?” She doesn’t quite know what she’s expecting him to say. Calamity? _Disaster?_

_“Adventure.”_

Same thing, really, with him. Under the florescent kitchen lights, the Doctor takes her hand for the third time, leading her out the door and down the corridor. He’s practically skipping at this stage, grinning from ear to ear, showing her around like he could never be prouder of anything else in the universe. He stops to explain the framed pictures on the walls and the fountain pens resting on side tables. _This is his castle,_ Amy realises, wandering further through the labyrinth of copper hallways. 

The TARDIS isn’t Wonderland, or _Narnia,_ no matter how much those stories rely on a little girl wandering through a world that’s so much bigger on the inside. No – this spaceship is his _palace,_ his stronghold, his citadel - and he’s the knight in shining armour showing a princess around the ballroom. Crimson painted nails and floating nightgowns, Amy feels pretty close to a princess right now, all swept up and flying amongst the stars. She almost laughs at that. There really is first time for everything.

Halfway down yet another corridor, the Doctor stops at a small wooden door with a brass handle, comparatively normal to the other rooms they’ve been walking past. 

“This is _you_.” 

And Amy grinds to a halt. She’s surprising herself that even after finding the swimming pool, this is the room that scares her the most. _This is you._ Whatever lies behind this door, be it a fourposter bed draped in lace or a tiny little store cupboard, this is _hers,_ her own space in his mad impossible time machine. Deep breaths, Pond, she tells herself. 

\--- 

Walking into her brand-new bedroom, among other things, is one of the strangest experiences she’s had in a while. It’s almost like walking into her old room in Leadworth, the familiarity of it all, with just a little twinge of starlight thrown in. Double bed shoved against the corner, fairy lights trailing from the headboard, the glow lends itself to deep blue walls. On the far side, there’s a chest of drawers and a silver-plated mirror. 

“God you’re kidding me.” Amy says, her mouth once again falling open. “This is _mine?_ ” 

“All yours.” The Doctor confirms, stepping in after her to survey the TARDIS’ handiwork. “Not massive, I’ll admit, but cosy enough.” He eyes the framed photograph of Biggles the cat on the bedside table. “It’s very _you._ ” 

Turning in a circle, Amy narrows her eyes at a door on the far side of the wall, leading off god knows where. “Broom cupboard, by any chance?” 

“En-Suite, actually.” 

“Oh, stop it.” She tuts at him. 

“See for yourself.” 

Almost intent on proving him wrong, she strides over to it and pulls it open, waiting to stare down a mop and a handful of buckets. But instead, she is indeed met with an En-Suite. White tiles and towel racks, a shower curtain crossing the back wall. 

“God, I hate you.” Amy mutters quietly, sucking in the air through her teeth. “Just _once_ would it kill you not to have so much _magnetism?_ ” 

The Doctor bites back a laugh. “It’s only a _bathroom,_ Pond.” 

“Bathrooms mean a lot to a girl,” Amy points out, stepping in further to nosy around. “Ask the TARDIS, bet she’s got several.” 

Still loitering out in the bedroom, the Doctor can’t help but smile. “Y’know, I’ve never really thought about it.” 

Pulling a face at her reflection in the mirror, Amy runs a hand over flushed cheeks, reaching up to let down her hair from its tight bun. Auburn strands cascade over shoulders, falling messily into red curls. “I can’t help noticing,” She says, picking at the cuff of her nightgown, “that there isn’t a wardrobe in here.” 

She hears the Doctor chuckle in the bedroom. “No. That’s somewhere else entirely.” 

“Bit impractical?” She pokes her head around the door. 

“Probably.” He smiles. “But I needed the space.” He offers her his hand again, wiggling the tips of his fingers. “Shall we go and find it?” 

Absolutely. Completely. Amy’s not about to disagree. 

They walk the corridors hand in hand, swinging their arms back and forth like a young couple who’ve only just discovered intimacy. They must be miles into the ship by now, God knows how many meters above sea level – if such a thing even exists in a time machine hurtling its way through the depths of the universe. 

They pass the seventh squash course, the scullery, some kind of space-age gadget room that Amy can’t get her head around, and in through a science lab that looks like it wouldn't be out of place in a secondary school. Gleaming tables and chemistry sets, God only knows what he gets up to in here, tinkering away with all kinds of questionable, unspeakable alien things. She doesn’t really want to think about that. How alien he really is makes her brain hurt, and frankly, she thinks, getting her head around his time machine is more than enough for one night. Maybe later he might show her the stardust capable of escaping his lips, but right now he seems to be as human as they come. He’s holding her hand like he could never begin to let go, swanning around the corridors delighted by their mere prospect. Human, twice over. Amy chances a glance at him. He’s even wearing a _bow tie,_ for God’s sake. 

She can’t help but laugh at the thought of that. 

\--- 

“So, it’s like, a whole room?” 

She’s trying to get her head around the sheer scope of the TARDIS wardrobe before they even get there. The Doctor muses. Then he smiles. 

“It’s bigger.” 

“A whole _floor?_ ” Amy raises an eyebrow. She supposes some glitzy penthouses in New York might have entire storeys dedicated to walls and walls of clothes. Is _that_ what this place is? Not Wonderland, not _Narnia,_ not even a castle or a palace out in the depths of a wood – but New York, with all of its glimmering lights, and shining avenues? She’s never been. She supposes she’ll have to wait to make that comparison. Again, the Doctor grins. 

“It’s _bigger._ ” 

“You’re kidding.” 

“Have I been so far?” Annoyingly, he hasn’t. He’s been as truthful as they come, showing her around with an outstretched hand and a spring in his step. The phrase _nothing short of extraordinary_ comes to mind. 

“Okay, well, how about a football pitch?” She’s running out of ideas. But still the Doctor laughs. 

“Well, if football pitches have _spiral staircases_ and about three hundred jacket rails, then yeah, it’s like a football pitch. In fact-” He says, stopping abruptly by a random door they’re _this close_ to walking past – “Why don’t you take a look?” 

She follows his gaze, then his footsteps, ducking in through the archway to stare at the sight they’re both greeted with. Bigger than a football pitch, he said. He’s definitely not wrong. He’s so completely _not wrong_ that she can’t even see the other end of the room from here, so cluttered it is with clothes rails and chests of drawers and intermittent floor-length mirrors. _The TARDIS wardrobe._ At last. 

“You could probably get lost in here.” The Doctor says, toeing the gap in the doorway, inadvertently echoing Amy’s train of thought from back in the library over an hour ago. 

“Want to _try?_ ” Amy asks, suddenly. Hopefully. All the best decisions are made spontaneously, after all. 

As if he’d even be able to stop her, the Doctor follows her further into the room, pointing out the nearest walkway next to the never-ending shirt piles. There must be everything in in here, from every single era there ever was, all jumbled up and completely disorganised. 13th century dungarees to space-age latex - They must have been in here for half a minute at most, and Amy’s already got her eye on thirteen different skirts. 

“You sure?” 

“Oh, wartime dignitaries, spitfires, the London Blitz-” She hasn’t forgotten what their next stop is. “I’ll need to change for the spectacle.” She’s still wearing her nightdress after all. 

\--- 

They’re sitting in the middle of a pile of jumpers, lounging on sofa cushions - approximately half a mile away from the door they first came in - when Amy holds up a floral shirt. It’s garish to say the least, and probably straight out of 1967, if she had to put any bets on it. 

“Alright, how about _this?_ ” 

“1941, it’s all I’m saying.” The Doctor cracks a slightly pained smile. “Period’s important, remember?” 

“Yeah,” Amy scoffs playfully, tossing it away, “says the man who turns up everywhere in _tweed;_ who can’t even tell the difference between ’96 and 2008.” 

“Amy look, I-” 

“Oh, be quiet. You’re here now, aren’t you?” She wafts a hand at his attempted apologies. On any other night, might listen to them. “All quiff and stupid hand gestures. Fourteen years in the making.” She’s quick to struggle to her feet, sitting herself unnecessarily close to him on the sofa. “What’s a bit of lateness amongst friends?” 

Finally, with enough manipulation, raised eyebrows and silent smirks, he lets her get away with it. With whatever she wants, with _wearing_ whatever she wants – as long as it’s not too cosmically damning. He supposes the he laws of period-authenticity can stand to be bent a bit; just this once. 

She’s got her hands on a Napoleonic military jacket, swinging it over her shoulders and letting the brass buttons glint in the spotlights. 

“ _This?_ ” 

“No.” 

A flowing ballgown with lace trimmings, golden at the edges – envisions of her hair done up in curls - 

“ _Amelia._ ” 

“Okay, okay, I’ll find something _better._ ” 

The Doctor’s pretty sure it goes on like this for hours. In the dim of the TARDIS wardrobe, Amy finds increasingly ridiculous things to wear out on their brand-new escapade – things that make him break out in laughter or blush deep red. Occasionally, she might pull out something normal, something she might wear on any given day, before diving headfirst into a pile of Renaissance jewellery, or something fit for a Masquerade ball. 

Every time she turns away, he’s rummaging in the nearest treasure chest, digging past 47th century underwear to find a jumper, or god forbid, a shirt she might like without feeling the need to whack him over the back of the head with it. After the incident with the cricket bat, he’s not taking any chances. 

“What about _this?_ ” 

It’s the umpteenth time he’s heard that question, and swinging around, he’s expecting something outrageous. Knowing her, and the general scope of the evening, he’s expecting to find her in a full suit of armour, or dressed head to toe in poison ivy, if she’s suddenly in the wrong mood. 

But he finds neither. Instead, she’s just standing there, flat out the floor, staring at him. And she’s wearing his jacket. All tweed and elbow patches, she must have picked it up from the floor from where he’d discarded it, hours and hours ago. Her hands curl at the cuffs, swamped by the broad shoulders. It’s entirely too big for her. 

“Well, you can’t wear _that._ ” He’s momentarily dumbstruck. 

“Why not?” 

“Cause it’s _mine!_ ” It’s the first thing he can think to say. He shouldn’t have to tell her this. He shouldn’t have to tell her that _actually, Amelia, it looks weirdly alright on you,_ because somehow, he hopes she already knows. He hopes she’s caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and thought, _Yeah, I’ll shut him up with this one._

Amy casts a look around the room. “ _All_ of this stuff is yours.” 

“Yeah well, preference.” He’s stalling now, standing there, thumbs under braces. “Take it off?” His voice is low. 

“ _Why?_ ” 

God, she really doesn’t like being reasoned with. “…Because I’d rather you didn’t wear it.” 

“I’d _rather_ a lot of things.” Amy says, pointedly, shrugging off the offending jacket and slinging it at him. “Doesn’t mean they happen. Like what you see?” 

“Yes.” The Doctor says immediately, completely honestly, before he can stop himself. Underneath, at last, she’s found something normal to wear. A leather jacket, a red shirt - “I like the skirt,” he says. He’s only just noticed it. 

“Thought you might.” 

“Shall we go?” 

Ginger curls caught under her collar, cherry red nail varnish and a wicked smile on her lips, Amy follows the Doctor on their long walk back to the doorway. _Absolutely, completely._ Churchill it is. 

Right now, the twists and turns of the corridors feel as familiar as Leadworth has ever been, just as old and crooked and _wonderful_ as a little town straight out of a fairy-tale, all green and leafy and pouring down with rain. The walls may not run with water, but Amy gets the sense that if she stays here long enough; wandering through this endless shifting maze, there might be daffodils and dandelions springing from the floors, daisy chains looping from picture frames and the odd starlit sunflower thrown in. 

Anywhere and everywhere, the Doctor had said. All of time and space. Swimming pools inside of libraries and the biggest wardrobe she’s ever seen. Walking down the staircase into the control room, the copper walls gleam right back at her, the police box doors as inviting as they always have been. 

Second trip out. 

Time to put on a show. 


End file.
